“Your folks lost a lot of slaves, didn’t they?”
“They had near a hundred, at the peak, after they bought the Greer plantation, which my older sister now oversees with her husband. They have sharecroppers, too.”
“Well, Thanksgiving dinner must be a bitch around your house.”
“You could regard our relationship as frosty, that’s fair. But they don’t hate me.”
“Course not, you’re their boy. At most they probably thought you misguided. Forgive me for asking, but you and your wife share the same, let’s see, philosophy?”
“I don’t mind. It took some doing, but I got her to come around to my side. Her parents were teachers and never needed slaves, so she never felt too drawn to the concept. I guess she grew up thinking that’s the way it always was.”
“Well, good for you. How soon after your little one pops out is she gonna go back to teaching? She picked the right damned state for that profession.” Cole alluded to South Carolina mandating in its constitution a statewide public education system.
“God, I don’t know. I guess I’ll be working overtime every so often, if that’s okay.”
“I expect that’ll be the case. Come school time you’ll be sticking close by the schoolhouses. A lot of people frown upon blacks learning to read and write, especially in a classroom with white kids. We’ll need you there early, well before the bell rings. But that ain’t for another few weeks.”
“Fine by me.”
The office’s front door opened, and a black man entered, looking around for someone official.
“I’ll be right out,” Cole called, and then to Noah, “The day has begun.”
The sheriff walked out of his office, followed by Noah, who spoke first.
“Toby Jenkins? Is that you?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Toby smiled and politely ignored the sheriff to shake Noah’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in—good Lord, how long’s it been?”
“You two know each other?” Cole looked back and forth at them.
“At least a decade,” Noah answered Toby’s question first, then the sheriff’s. “My family bought corn every year from Charlie Stanhope, and me and my brother would ride over there and pick it up. Toby was always there to help us out.”
“Because you never demanded it, like it was expected of me to drop everything and load up your wagon,” Toby said. “I always appreciated that.”
Toby removed his hat out of respect and shook the sheriff’s hand, introducing himself, and then described the previous evening’s events, and his suspicion that Thomas Diggs had sent them.
“I didn’t get a good look at any of them,” Toby said. “Just that there were three of them. One of them somehow got shot. There was blood on my porch.”
“Wait, you didn’t shoot them?”
“No, sir. I heard a couple of shots. One must’ve accidentally shot another.”
“How’d you fend them off?”
“I’ve been keeping that property safe for years, Sheriff. I have my ways.” Toby plowed ahead to keep the sheriff from focusing on it. “My fear is that next time it won’t be three men, but a mob. I’ve got a baby boy and a wife.”
“Can you prove Diggs sent them?”
“Nah, just a hunch. He didn’t take too kindly to me rejecting his offer to buy my land. Maybe with me and my family out of the way, he’d figure on buying it from, I don’t know, the county, I guess. I really should make out a will and designate it for someone.”
“All right, here’s what I’ll do,” Cole said. “I’ll talk to the Army lieutenant and get regular patrols up your way for a little while. I think they would even post a lookout there these next few nights. Just give me directions to your house and I’ll get that done today.”
“Thank you.”
A young man about Noah’s height and age with short-cropped black hair entered the office and removed his cowboy hat.
“Let me guess,” Cole said. “You’re Drew Preston?”
“Yessir, Sheriff Cole, I presume,” the man said.
“First interview of the day. Go into my office there and take a seat, I’ll be right with you.” Preston did, and Cole turned to his deputy and Toby. “Noah, you know what I want you to do, and Mister Jenkins, I promise we’ll look out for you.”
Cole walked into his office and closed the door.
“Noah, I know about you,” Toby said. “It’s brave what you’re doing.”
“And dangerous and stupid, in some people’s eyes.”
“Not mine. Stop by in a week or so, we’ll have some corn for you—that ain’t a bribe, mind you.”
“I might just take you up on that. Tell Sarah I said hello, and good luck with your son. My wife’s in the family way. Hopefully by month’s end.”
“Oh, boy—you think your life’s already changed? Not yet it hasn’t. Not yet.” Toby winked at Noah and the two parted ways.
“Wait, Noah, don’t go!” Noah heard from Cole’s shuttered office. The sheriff opened the door and said “Catch” while flipping a shiny object that Noah caught mid-air.
“Put that on, will ya?” Cole disappeared behind his door.
Noah grinned upon seeing an ornate silver star wreathed in a circle. “Deputy” arched across the top of the circle. “Henderson County” smiled along the bottom. He pinned it above his left breast pocket.
He exited to conduct his meet-and-greet, but before doing so he walked to Doctor Wendell Richardson’s office, a two-story Victorian home painted white with black shutters that was the first building on Main Street to greet Henderson’s visitors.
The bell dangling over the entrance’s arch jingled as Noah opened the door.
“Howdy.” He nodded to the lone man seated in the small reception area.
“Hi.” The man’s eyes widened upon seeing the deputy. The expression did not go unnoticed by Noah.
“All right, Franklin, let’s go.” Lyle Kimbrell appeared from behind the door leading to the examination room, with Brendan behind him followed by Richardson. Lyle stopped, causing Brendan to collide with Lyle’s back, and the doctor into Brendan’s.
“Morning, officer,” Lyle said nonchalantly as he limped to leave.
Franklin stood and twisted the doorknob, barely needing to move. Brendan slid around Lyle to escape the crowded reception room. A patch of white gauze stained crimson poked out of the shredded black fabric that covered Brendan’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Doc,” Brendan said, freedom in sight. “We owe you.”
“Actually, you do,” said Richardson, a small, balding man with gray fuzz wrapping around the back of his head. “To whom should I send this bill?”
“Send it to Thomas Diggs,” Franklin blurted.
In Lyle’s mind, he effortlessly drew his LeMat and blasted Franklin’s brains all over Richardson’s shiny white walls—but only in his mind. Reality dictated he keep his poker face and not scrunch his eyelids and furrow his brow in rage.
“Morning, Doc. I stopped by to see if you had any patients with odd injuries, but I don’t think I need to ask you,” Noah said. “You go on ahead and bill Mister Diggs for your fine work.”
The doctor retreated into his office as Noah assessed the trio.
“Good morning, boys. Why don’t we all step outside so you can tell me what you’ve been up to?”
Lyle played it cool. “Of course, Deputy?”
“Chandler.”
“Deputy Chandler, pleased to oblige.” Lyle walked past Franklin, glaring at him. Brendan, per usual, kept quiet as they all left, Noah being the last one out. They gathered on the small covered porch—the doctor’s extended waiting area with four more seats—surrounding the office entrance.
“Looks like you boys have had a bit of bad luck,” Noah said. “What happened?”
“Oh, don’t you mind us,
Deputy Chandler,” Lyle said pleasantly. “Just a brainless hunting accident this morning and—”
“You guys went hunting without me?” Franklin seemed genuinely wounded. “When did you find the time to go hunt—”
“Franklin!” Brendan clapped the big guy’s shoulder. “I really want to thank you for checking in on us and making sure we could get home okay after Lyle and I had our little mishap this morning hunting ducks.”
“Oh.” The bell clanged in Franklin’s head. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
“Duck hunting, huh?” Noah stroked his chin, surmising the absurdity. “Since when do you go hunting ducks with a LeMat?”
“This?” Lyle patted his holstered revolver. “I wear this everywhere I go, Deputy Chatwell.”
“Chandler,” Noah said.
“Sorry about that.” Lyle smiled, but cocked his head sideways and squinted—where the hell have I seen you before?
Noah instinctively knew Lyle and the boys figured out he was that Chandler who fought for the North.
“As for my weapon, I trust these freedmen like I trust a bear in a rabbit hutch—you never know when one of them niggers is going to accost you on the street,” Lyle said. “I consider it my moral duty to protect myself.”
“That so? How about this—you boys weren’t at Toby Jenkins’s place last night, were you? Spoke to him earlier. Said something about three men outside his house and that one of them managed to get shot. And lookie here—I have three men in front of me with two of them injured. I’m assuming the ducks didn’t do that to you.” Noah smirked at Brendan and nodded toward the shoulder wound.
“We were carrying our rifles near Ashleigh’s Pond behind the Diggs plantation where a whole mess of ducks flew out of the tall-grass, spooked us both,” Brendan said. “I accidentally pulled my trigger and hit Lyle, who turned and accidentally shot my shoulder. Thank goodness it wasn’t more serious.”
“And you honestly expect me to believe that?” Noah said.
“Sure do, Deputy Chandler.” Lyle took the story from there. “Especially since Thomas Diggs will vouch for us. The word of a man of his caliber should suffice. But I don’t think a minor hunting accident should concern the law, especially when the Klan’s planning something.”
“And I’m sure you would tell me if you knew what the Klan had on its agenda?”
“No, Deputy Chandler, I would not.” Lyle ceased being cordial. “I ain’t yet joined that fine organization, but maybe one day I will. What kind of future member would I be if I ratted them out to some nigger-loving deputy who works for some nigger-loving scalawag?”
Brendan and Lyle stared at Noah, who didn’t give an inch.
“Stay away from Toby Jenkins.”
“Never went near him,” Lyle said.
“I’m not as stupid as that giant behind you.” Noah pointed to an oblivious Franklin, who watched with childlike amazement as a Monarch butterfly fluttered around the porch. “It’s good for you I’ve got more important things to do right now than investigate what looks like trespassing.”
“I told you, Deputy Chandler—we went duck hunting,” Brendan said. “Go ask Mister Diggs yourself. He stopped in to check on us before he took care of some business here in town. Heck, maybe he’s still around. Why don’t you go look for him?”
Great, they got their stories straight, Noah thought.
“Why don’t you boys go home and bathe. It smells like you worked up an awful big sweat walking to a pond. Speaking of awful big,” Noah said, turning to Franklin. “Did you say you went duck hunting with your friends this morning?”
“You don’t have to answer him, Franklin,” Lyle said. “In fact, shut the fuck up. We’ve been hounded enough by the deputy for one day. That’s really no way to treat a couple of injured hunters,” Lyle addressed Noah. “I might make a complaint to Sheriff Cole about your insensitivity. But I think your suggestion of taking a bath sounds solid. I could use one, but not because of the way I smell—a manly smell, if you ask me. Deputy Chandler’s got some nigger stink on him that I’m afraid has befouled us. That cannot be tolerated.”
Lyle brushed past Noah, bumping him with his shoulder, daring him to make an arrest for assault. “Be sure to check in with Mister Diggs, Deputy Charter,” Lyle called over his shoulder without looking at him. “Come on, boys.”
Brendan and Franklin followed Lyle. They weren’t sure where. They just followed.
Noah stayed quiet and made a mental note to ask Sheriff Cole for whatever details he had on the three lying thugs, whether any of them were regulars in the jail. He looked on his shirtsleeve where Lyle had bumped him and flicked away the grime.
Toby left the general store with a new water bucket—made of metal. He mounted his horse and gripped the saddle horn with both hands. He slid his thick forearm under the bucket handle and let it dangle as he rode through Henderson. He nodded graciously to the soldiers patrolling the town. They began converging on the railroad station as soon as they heard the locomotive’s whistle. Thieves sometimes loitered near the platforms where supplies were unloaded, and the extra set of eyes helped to dissuade this practice.
Piano music echoed from the Tavern, wedged in between a restaurant and a hotel along Main Street. Feeling parched, and having a few extra cents on him, he hitched Chester to the post in front of the bar. The music continued without missing a beat upon his entry; such was not the case immediately after the War. Some of the diehards couldn’t believe the audacity of freedmen sauntering in for a drink or a whore or both. Nobody blinked upon these now common occurrences.
“One whisky, please,” he said to the barman, a hunched elderly fellow with a mop of thick white hair.
“Drink or a bottle?”
“Drink please.”
“That’ll be five cents.”
Toby tapped the coin on the bar and slid it to the old-timer.
“It’ll be right up.” The barkeep retrieved the bottle and fidgeted under the bar for a glass. Toby listened to the chinks of glass and for whatever else he could hear through the din of piano, card players saying “call,” and the drunken guffaws. He hadn’t lived this long after the War and grew what Charlie Stanhope left him by keeping his nose out of other people’s business. He never butted in to inquire about what might be going on, but if he heard something—plans of a lynching or a cross-burning, both of which had been tried on his property without success—Toby reacted accordingly.
“Here you go.” The bartender slid the small glass of whisky to Toby, who nodded thanks.
The big room featured twenty round tables that each sat six. The place was a quarter full as noon neared. It would pick up come lunchtime as the farmers and sharecroppers closest to town would stop in for a drink. Toby gulped half his glass and let out a satisfied “ah” and wiped his chin with his hand. He pretended not to notice the four men—who he knew to be Klansmen—sitting at the table at the far end of the Tavern. He detected their stares and glances from the periphery of his eyes that he focused elsewhere, but close enough to see. Toby also read lips—another trick to survival. Toby played oblivious while stealing glances of the men he could see. Fortunately the guy with his back to Toby didn’t talk much, only nodded. They all wore cowboy hats, and the brims covered their eyes but not their lips. Toby kept reading “Tonight,” spoken over and over by the man across from the guy whose back was to Toby.
Tonight what? He threw back the rest of his whisky and ordered one more, slapping a nickel on the bar. The bartender handed him a full glass and Toby sat at the nearest table that still offered an inconspicuous view of the four Klansmen.
“Eight of us, total,” Toby read. Eight Klansman tonight, but where? Toby nursed his drink, timing his glances to keep up the charade.
“Elkton.” That cinched it. Leroy Elkton’s farm. It made sense. Leroy embraced Reconstruction, and despite being a former slave owner, he treated
the mostly black sharecroppers with dignity, asking for a respectable cut from their toil so everyone could profit. He grew corn, cotton and wheat on his farm and, all things considered, fared well with the freedmen. Toby reasoned the Klan wanted to put Leroy in his place.
The lead man slapped his hand on the table to end the conversation. Everyone at the table nodded and they all stood in unison. They each bought a full bottle of whisky and walked out. Hmm, it’s either to help loosen them up before war, or for a celebration afterward, Toby thought. His insides fluttered. He knew Leroy Elkton and some of the freedmen who worked on his farm. Claude Jefferson and a few other sharecroppers rented rooms in the former slaves’ quarters near Elkton’s barn. Elkton didn’t gouge the four men currently living there. He made sure the living conditions stayed acceptable. Happy tenants meant for greater chances of their prospering, thereby enriching Elkton.
“What to do?” Toby said to no one in particular. He drank the remainder of his booze and let it melt into him. He savored his victory the previous evening. A well-earned buzz seemed a proper reward. Chester knew the way home and Toby would let the horse’s amble lull him into further comfort. Individual soldiers continue to wage the disbanded Confederate Army’s stealth war, Toby thought. Whoever snuck onto his farm certainly served under Lee and could not rid themselves of defeat’s sting.
Same thing with the Klansmen. They’ll keep on coming, federal prison or not. The only question now: should I alert the sheriff and the soldiers? Toby mulled a third option during Chester’s slow walk home.
Chapter Six
The eight men had previously made camp in the woods on the Elkton farm’s outskirts. The Army patrolled the roads so the Klansmen avoided traveling obvious routes, and instead of thirty-man lynch mobs, they worked in smaller pockets. The men labored at the railroad station loading and unloading goods. At day’s end, rather than returning to their miserable little homes barely big enough for a bride and a baby, they hopped the seven o’clock train for the evening journey to Atlanta and jumped off where the tracks aligned parallel to Elkton’s property. They brought provisions to the campsite over a period of weeks rather than transporting everything at once and arousing suspicion. They pitched the campsite deep in the forest from the road they traveled every morning to the train station. The Army never noticed and the Klansmen could spring their trap whenever they grew the stones for it.
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